


The Gang Goes on a Fun Mission

by ObsessiveExplosion



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk John, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Sheppard Whump, Protective Team, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25770505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessiveExplosion/pseuds/ObsessiveExplosion
Summary: John has to participate in a ceremonial drinking contest in order to secure a trade deal for Atlantis. The only problem? John can't hold his liquor.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Shot One**

"I still don't get why we couldn't just have Ronon do this," Rodney hissed in Teyla's ear. "He's so much bigger than Sheppard. Sheppard is going to die."

"Rodney," Teyla hissed. This was not the first time they had had some variation on this conversation, and Teyla was getting tired of it. "Do not let John hear you. Now is not the time."

Rodney frowned, but subsided, to Teyla's relief. Both of them turned their attention back to John, who was staring straight ahead. His expression was one of carefully arranged determination, but it was masking scarcely-concealed delight.

They were on a planet called Kuwani, trying to negotiate a trade deal with the local settlers. Teyla had never formally met any of the inhabitants of Kuwani, but she had heard that they were a welcoming but very traditional people. When she, Rodney, Ronon, and John had first arrived on the planet, they had been shown to luxurious rooms and given plenty to eat, much to Rodney's delight. Everything had been going perfectly until the man who had been showing them around had asked which one of them was their leader, and, once they had pointed to John, informed them that he would have to participate in a specific ceremony, that, while not dangerous, might be uncomfortable. The details of the trade agreement would be determined based on John's performance. They had spent the next hour or so in a state of nervous anticipation.

That is, until they had shown up at what they'd expected to be nothing more than a small, informal gathering of Kuwani top officials and learned that the ceremony was, in fact, a drinking contest. The best situation for their trade agreement would be if John managed to consume more drinks than the Kuwani man, proving his fortitude and strength.

This was all well and good, and a faint smile had played on John's face ever since he had found out the news. But still, Teyla was worried. Rodney was right, Ronon would be much better suited to win this sort of contest than John was. John wasn't a big drinker - Teyla had only seen him consume more than a drink or two a small handful of times. He wasn't short, but he didn't have Ronon's bulk, and there was nothing to keep the alcohol from hitting him hard. Not only that, but he was recovering from a recent stomach bug. He had spent nearly the entirety of the last week in the infirmary, unable to keep down anything but the smallest sips of water. This was his first mission back, and it showed. While his coloring was better, he still looked bony and almost frail. Teyla wasn't at all sure that he'd even make it past the first shot.

Still, it was too late for second thoughts. If John didn't do this contest, then Atlantis likely wouldn't be able to make any sort of trade deal with this planet at all.

Teyla sighed and tried to look encouraging and supportive, and not as though she expected this to go very wrong, very quickly. At the contestants' table, John turned around and grinned at them, raising the glass of clear liquid in their direction. Then, he swallowed, and the contest had begun.

John didn't grimace, but Teyla caught the telltale stiffening in his back and shoulders and guessed that whatever he'd just swallowed was deeply unpleasant. Still, it had been about thirty seconds, and he didn't appear to be throwing up. That was a good sign.

Teyla waited for John to turn away and walk back to them, but instead he...began pouring another shot. Teyla sighed, heavily. The rules of the contest included that each contestant must drink at the end of a twenty minute margin, although the guest could choose to drink anytime before that endpoint, at which time the clock would be reset. The Kuwanese contestant would have to match the pace set by the guest. Teyla had assumed that John would take it slow, but she'd evidently given him more credit than he deserved.

Even from here, she could see the smirk on John's face as he raised the second glass. This had all the markings of a very long night.

* * *

**Shot Two**

The second one tasted even worse than the first. It burned going down, and tasted like gasoline smelled. The closest thing John could think of to compare it to was an unbelievably shitty bottle of vodka he'd stolen from a college party, but this was maybe a thousand times worse.

But John wasn't going to let on. He was calm, cool, collected. He was going to start off strong, and show the Kuwani people that he was someone to watch out for. Three shots should do it, that was a nice round number, a lucky number.

John began pouring shot number three, trying not to breathe in as the fumes coiled upwards. He was forcibly reminded of refueling F-302s. Bracing himself, John nodded at his opponent and raised his glass again.

* * *

**Shot Three**

John could almost _feel_ Teyla radiating disapproval as the jet-engine moonshine scorched its way down the back of his throat. He didn't understand why she was so concerned. The guy he was drinking against was on the small side, not much larger than John himself. He wasn't fighting to outdrink some hulking man like Ronon. And while the shots themselves were truly terrible, giving him a broken-glass feeling in the center of his chest and coating his mouth with an almost painfully astringent taste, so far, they were settling just fine. He was a little worried - he had spent most of the past week leaning over the side of his bed to vomit into a trash can, and while he felt completely fine now, he'd been being careful not to push his system too hard.

But come on. So far things were going fine. He didn't even feel sick - in fact, he was kind of having fun. And anyways, it wasn't like he was doing this to annoy Teyla. He had to do it if he wanted to get Atlantis the trade agreement. He simply didn't have a choice.

John had hoped he could manage a fourth shot right in the beginning, before any of the alcohol hit his blood stream. But he was guessing from the awful taste that the stuff he'd been drinking was pretty strong, and the Kuwanese man had no reaction at all to putting the vile stuff in his mouth. John needed to pace himself, both to keep from being too drunk and to avoid triggering his gag reflex.

His opponent watched him with narrowed eyes, waiting to see if he would dare take a fourth drink. John could feel the eyes of his team drilling into his back as well. John carefully set his glass down on the table in front of him, and did not reach for the bottle.

Instead, he stood, and there was a collective murmuring of surprise and relief from the gathered crowd. As soon as he was vertical, a feeling of warmth bloomed in his chest and behind his eyes. He wanted...water, he supposed, or even another, less strong drink. Something to wash the taste of the...super vodka, or whatever it was, out of his mouth. He wanted to see his team. He wanted to wander around, talking to everyone he could from Kuwani and learning about their culture.

Yeah. This was a good mission. The best one in a long time.

* * *

Ronon watched Sheppard walk away from the table, back into the crowd. He was met by Teyla halfway, and together they vanished into the mingled gathering.

"Well, I think that went rather well." McKay appeared at his elbow, holding a drink of his own. Ronon shrugged and took a sip from his own glass.

"For now."

"What, you don't think he can do it?" Rodney sounded offended, like Ronon's lack of faith was some kind of personal attack.

"Sheppard's not a big drinker, is he?"

Rodney sputtered. "Well-?"

Ronon looked around, noting the intrigued looks on the faces of some of the Kuwanese people nearby.

"How 'bout we make this interesting? I'll lay odds that the skinny guy with the scruffy hair goes down after ten."

Rodney looked horrified, and one of the bystanders snorted. "After ten? I'll give him six."

Ronon grinned, and soon enough money was changing hands and his new friends were pressing more drinks into his hands.

"I can't believe you're betting against John," Rodney hissed at him. Ronon grunted, hoping the nonverbal response would discourage him and the man would go away, or at least stop bothering him. No such luck. "You want him to win, don't you?"

"Course I do," Ronon answered. "Doesn't mean he will. Sheppard's a tough guy, but this is strong stuff."

The scientist huffed disapprovingly. "I think he's got a chance. Have a little faith."

Ronon grinned again. "Wanna bet?"

Rodney considered, then nodded. "You know what, I will. Money on Sheppard to win."

"Yeah, I'll give you ten to one on that," Ronon answered, starting as John and Teyla suddenly rematerialized from a knot of people. He reminded himself sternly that there was no need to feel guilty, and there wasn't anything wrong with making things a bit more fun. Still feeling a little off-kilter, he drained his drink as John wandered up and cleared his throat, hoping that he sounded natural.

"Hey, Sheppard," Ronon said. "How are you feeling?"

"I am feeling good!" John said, just a little too loudly. The room wasn't particularly full - there were the four of them, plus perhaps fifteen various members of the Kuwanese government. It wasn't very loud, even with everyone talking, and several heads turned to look at John.

Ronon saw Teyla and Rodney exchange a glance. Rodney looked bemused, but Teyla looked worried. Ronon was firmly on Rodney's side. John wasn't nearly to the point of embarrassing himself, he was just having a bit of harmless fun. Same way Ronon was with the bets. They'd had a rough few months, they all needed this.

Ronon glanced at the hourglass nestled against the far wall. They had a little over half the time left before John would be forced to take his next drink, assuming he didn't do it earlier. Even though John was clearly already feeling the effects of his first three shots, Ronon wouldn't put it past him. He was small, but, at least in his own mind, clearly in it to win.

But still. Even if John started drinking a little early, there was definitely enough time for Ronon to collect a few more bets.

* * *

"How is your stomach?" Teyla asked, eyeing John nervously. He kept trying to strike up conversations with Kuwanese officials, a move Teyla wasn't sure she was in favor of. It was a drinking contest, so she was sure they would not be expecting John to act completely sober. But John's opponent seemed unaffected by the first three drinks, while John himself was already grinning, movements sloppy and gestures too big.

"I m feeling _fine,_ Teyla. Perfectly okay. Don't worry about me."

"Colonel-"

"This stuff is good. Strong. I'm just relaxing here. This is the...it's the best mission we've been on in a while."

He seemed to think he was convincing Teyla that he was more sober than she thought. It was not working.

"Alright," Teyla said dubiously. She had already had a rather large drink herself, and while she knew what she had consumed wasn't as strong as the homebrew liquor John was drinking, she was still worried that she was feeling nothing and John clearly was.

"We're gonna...we're gonna get the best trade agreement ever," he informed her solemnly. He patted her gently on the shoulder, which made her soften slightly.

"I know we are, John."

John dragged Teyla over to a knot of Kuwanese officials, and then forced Teyla to stand there in relative silence while he explained in great detail all the ways in which the Kuwanese people could make the uninhabited field where they'd landed the jumper more suitable for pilots. It was clear that no one was enjoying the conversation aside from John himself, although Teyla thought perhaps some of the officials were charmed by John's unproblematic exuberance.

Although Teyla thought this whole process was a little backwards, and was especially worried about how copious amounts of alcohol would affect John's already-fragile system, she had to admit that she was somewhat intrigued by the idea of drunk John. Before the arrival of the Daedalus, alcohol on Atlantis had been both limited and carefully rationed. She had never seen John consume more than two drinks in a single night. Even after contact with Earth increased and drinking became more commonplace, John himself rarely drank. There were too many unexpected emergencies, and John was too important to have many nights where he put himself completely out of commission. When they traveled to other planets, John was always careful to never drink so much that he would be unable to handle a sudden change of plans.

But now, John drinking was unavoidable. He was actually expected to consume a large quantity of alcohol, and Teyla supposed she couldn't blame him for enjoying it. It wasn't as though John were really able to take days off. Even when he was supposed to be relaxing, something always seemed to come up. Perhaps he really did need this.

* * *

**Shot Four**

Had it already been twenty minutes? Rodney glanced at the hourglass in surprise as John tipped his glass to his opponent and drained it.

Rodney wasn't about to say this to John, at least not until he'd had a few more drinks himself, but he was impressed. Rodney had caught a whiff of the stuff John was drinking as someone had walked by to replenish the contestants' supply, and it smelled absolutely horrifying. If someone had asked him to drink it, Rodney was fairly sure that he would have thrown up instantly.

But John had taken four shots, and seemed to be perfectly fine so far.

"Rodney!"

Okay, maybe he was a little drunk. Still, Rodney wasn't losing faith. Besides, he'd laid money on this.

"What?" Rodney asked John.

"This...is a GREAT trade agreement." John gave Rodney a huge, goofy smile. "Probably the best trade agreement."

"I can't argue with that," Rodney replied, snickering a little.

"Whatcha laughing about?" John asked, sounding suddenly very suspicious.

"You," Rodney giggled. "You're drunk."

Come to think of it, he might have been starting to feel it himself. No matter, this was the time off that he never got, and he intended to enjoy it.

John's goofy smile reappeared, and he nodded contentedly. "Yep. I'm drunk."

Rodney giggled again (no, it was a _laugh_ ) and finished his drink. "I've never seen you get drunk. Not really."

John shrugged, a little lopsidedly. "No time. I'm glad about this, though. It's good to relax." He grinned again, then reached out and rubbed the top of Rodney's head.

Rodney froze while he tried to decide whether or not he liked that or not. It certainly wasn't his favorite thing that Sheppard had ever done, but John was drunk, and Rodney was a little drunk too, and the expression on John's face was hilarious.

John took his hand back and chuckled. "Your hair is dumb."

Rodney dropped his empty cup and frantically combed his hair back. "What, like yours?"

John shrugged and scrubbed a hand through his own hair, causing it to stick up in even more inconvenient ways than usual. Despite himself, Rodney laughed again. Rodney cared for and respected John, but his hair was quite dumb, that was simply an unavoidable fact. The idea of John criticizing anyone else on the matter was pretty funny.

"Are you...have you been drinking too?" John asked.

"A little," Rodney said. He had had two drinks, although neither of them were even close in content to the vile moonshine John had been consuming.

John narrowed his eyes, and then nodded sagely, seemingly in agreement that Rodney had, in fact, been drinking a little too. He pointed at Rodney's chest.

"You don't drink very often either!" John exclaimed.

Rodney shook his head. "I don't. This is the first time in a while." Drinking was less of a passtime on Atlantis than one would expect, especially from a group of people in their thirties and forties. There was simply usually too much going on. Rodney wouldn't say he was exactly letting loose tonight - they were, after all, still on a mission, and it would not serve Atlantis well for any of them to make a fool of themselves. But Kuwani seemed safe, the people kind, and it was nice to let his guard down a little. He was glad to see that Sheppard had done the same.

"Have you been talkin' to anyone?" John asked.

"What do you mean?" Rodney had been talking to plenty of people. This was as much a chance to get to know the Kuwanese people, to make sure they could be trusted by Atlantis and vice versa, as it was a traditional ceremony. Rodney didn't love small talk, but even he could recognize that, and he had made it a point to have conversations with at least half the people in the room.

"There are some pretty girls," he said, swaying gently forward until his shoulder bumped into Rodney's. "Some pretty...yeah. You should talk to them. Have you thought about that?"

Rodney grinned again. The fact that there were several attractive Kuwanese girls here certainly hadn't escaped his notice, although he was rather surprised it had registered for Sheppard. He had not, however, really considered talking to them. It simply didn't seem like the time.

"I wasn't planning on talking to them, no," Rodney said, curious to see how Sheppard would respond.

"You should go up to them," John said wisely, straightening up, sounding for all the world like he was about to start a TED talk on how to talk to women. "Or actually...I'll go up to them. Here's how it's going to go down. I'm going to go up to...mmmm...that one, and I'm going to say 'Have you talked to my friend Rodney? He's pretty cool.' And then it's all you, buddy."

Rodney was, thankfully, saved from responding by the sound of the timer going off again, signaling that it was time for John to take his next drink.

"Ooh. Gotta go. Talk to some _girls_ ," John hissed, and made a beeline to the table in the center of the room.

"Maybe I will," Rodney announced to John's receding back, smiling at no one in particular. He could use another drink, too, he thought. This really _was_ a great mission.


	2. Chapter 2

**Shot Five**

The fifth one actually went down a bit easier, much to John's surprise. Maybe he was getting used to it.

John stepped away from the table, noticing that the edges of his vision were just the slightest bit blurry. Okay, so he wasn't getting used to it, he was just drunk enough that it didn't taste as bad.

John didn't care. It wasn't like he had much of a choice. He was going to end up drunk, and that was all there was to it. Besides, it would probably be fun. It certainly had been so far. John was having a great time.

"I am having a great time," John announced to whoever happened to be nearest. It turned out to be Ronon. John grinned and slapped Ronon affectionately on the back.

"Hey there, big guy. How's it goin'?"

Ronon grinned back and before John knew what was happening, Ronon's arm was around his shoulders, one hand resting on top of John's head.

"You're doin' great, Sheppard."

"I know," John replied solemnly, leaving his hand on Ronon's back and patting it slightly for emphasis. "Having a blast."

"You're a fun drunk, you know that?"

"I am, aren't I?" John replied. "Hey, are you...also drunk?"

Ronon laughed and ruffled the top of John's hair again. "Yep."

"Huh," John said. "Thought so. You're pretty fun too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." John nodded, satisfied. Then he remembered that he had had a question for Ronon from earlier, and he stumbled back a half-step so he could actually get a better look at him.

"Something wrong?" Ronon asked. He possibly thought John was in the process of falling, which, in Ronon's defense, was a fair thing to think.

"Wait, I wanted to ask you something," John said, eyes narrowed. "What...it was...what is it that you were...I kept seeing you give people money earlier. Or maybe people were giving you money. I don't know. I don't remember. But what was that? What are we payin' for?"

Ronon shrugged. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Okay," John said happily. He was at the perfect level. If he had the option to not worry about something, that was very much what he would prefer to do.

"Hey, Sheppard," Ronon asked, putting his hand back on John's shoulder. It was heavy, nearly knocking John off-balance, but not in a way that he minded. "How are you feeling?"

"What...what do you mean?" John asked. He had the strange feeling that he was about to be caught in a lie, possibly reprimanded, although that didn't make sense because he wasn't lying about anything. He was drunk, but he was supposed to be. It was for the mission. And anyways, he wasn't making any effort to hide that.

"I mean your stomach, how is it holding up? You've been drinking their homemade stuff all night, right?"

"Yeah...wait, you're tried it?" This came as an absolute shock to John. John could not in a million years imagine drinking the liquor he was taking shots of on purpose, and his drink of choice on earth had been tequila.

"Yeah," Ronon said, brandishing his cup. "That's what I'm drinking now. See?"

John didn't need to look. He could smell the sharp, gasoline-like scent of the Kuwani moonshine radiating from Ronon's cup, and he knew his friend really was drinking the same drink on purpose. John wondered if he should have his friend committed.

"Why are you doing that?" John exclaimed.

"I dunno, it's what was around, I like it, it's fine, but anyways...you know you can throw up if you need to, right? None of us will think any less of you."

John narrowed his eyes. "I don't think those are the rules. I think I gotta…," John gestured himself, "all the alcohol needs to be inside _this."_

Ronon shrugged. "But, I mean, if you gotta. None of us are gonna blame you."

"Don't worry. I'm gonna _win_ ," John told Ronon, who seemed strangely distressed by this news. Maybe he had misunderstood. John would have to be clearer.

He was just musing over how to explain that Ronon shouldn't be worried when Teyla appeared before him.

"John, it is almost time for the next drink."

John glanced at the hourglass and realized with some surprise that she was right. That had gone by faster than he'd thought. John considered, and then realized that this was the perfect opportunity to prove to Ronon that he didn't need to worry.

"Next drink. Pffh. I'm takin' two."

Ronon slapped him on the back, and John almost fell over. He grabbed Ronon's arm to keep upright, then sheepishly let it go as Teyla arched an eyebrow at him.

"John."

John frowned at the way Teyla was saying his name, all full of disapproval and responsibility.

"It's a...whassit. Power move. Shows I'm a contender."

Teyla smiled, but it looked a lot like the smile she made during sparring, and it always meant bruises. John eyed her warily and backed up half a step.

"I believe you have already firmly established that, when you _took three shots at the beginning_."

"But-"

"Perhaps now is the time to keep a steady pace," Teyla said, and John didn't really think that she was asking. And maybe she was right. He was already pretty drunk, and he'd only taken five shots. Maybe it _was_ better to take it slow.

"Okay," John muttered. "Sorry, big guy."

"'Sokay," Ronon answered. "Only five more, Sheppard. You can do it."

John didn't _think_ there was anything in the contest rules about stopping at ten, but maybe he'd missed it. Shrugging, he wandered towards the table.

* * *

**Shot six**

Teyla watched keenly as John drank the moonshine down. He leaned forward slightly, saying something to his opponent. Teyla couldn't hear it from where she was standing, and she sighed. John's opponent seemed to be finally feeling the effects of the alcohol, but not nearly as much as John. Whatever John had just said was almost certainly friendly, odd, and clearly the product of intoxication. Teyla wasn't _worried_ about John, not really. He was not yet at the point where he was in any danger. He didn't even seem likely to vomit soon, considering he had managed to successfully take six shots without doing so. But the fact that he was visibly so much drunker than the Kuwanese man did not exactly bode well for their trade deal.

John stood up, smile on his face, and took a half-step forward. Immediately, he stumbled hard, tripping over either the chair or his other leg or just the ground. He would have fallen if he hadn't shot a hand out to catch himself unsteadily on the table. His smile didn't falter.

"John," Teyla said, running forward and grabbing his shoulder to stabilize him. He grinned at her, eyes half-lidded and sleepy-looking. "You-"

"Hey, I'm doing great," he said, not letting her finish. "I'm just-"

He took a wobbly step away from her. He managed to keep his balance this time, although that wasn't particularly comforting. He smelled like alcohol.

"You are just drunk," Teyla said patiently. "What I was going to say is that you should have something to drink."

John's smile widened, and he pointed a wavering finger at her. "Hey," he said good-naturedly. "A joke."

"John, that...was not a joke. You need to get something to drink."

"I already had _plenty_ to drink," he said, making a sound that Teyla thought could best be described as _giggling_. "That's the whole thing!"

Teyla sighed. She had seen some of the people from Earth press their foreheads into their palms when they were exasperated, and for the first time, she felt she really understood the gesture. "John, you need to drink _water."_

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I did not mean you should have more alcohol," she continued. "You are drunk, you have already consumed plenty. But a little water and some food would do you good."

He kept staring at her. She grabbed his shoulder and steered him towards a small bench in a rather secluded corner of the room. He sat down obediently, looking up at her trustingly.

"Teyla," he said. "You're being nice to me."

Teyla didn't know how to respond to this. John was one of her favorite people, and she thought that she was always rather nice to him. Even though she thought this whole thing was idiotic and he was likely to do himself harm, she hadn't truly said anything to him that would imply that. She just wanted to make sure he was as well taken care of as he could be.

She gave his shoulder a gentle pat, which was the only thing she could think of to do. "Stay right here," she said. "I am going to see if I can find you some water and something to eat."

She started to walk away. He got up to follow her.

"No, you stay here," she repeated patiently. "I will return."

* * *

John was pretty happy. He was also pretty drunk. But his team was all here, and that was nice. And he didn't feel bad, which was something he had been worried about. But he felt good, great even, just a little spinny.

But Teyla was getting him water, and that should help. John absentmindedly began picking at the edge of the sweatband on his wrist, glancing around the room.

Where _was_ Teyla? It seemed like it had been a while since she'd left, and John was tired of sitting on the bench where she'd left him. Besides, she seemed to be worried that he was too drunk, and the best way to convince her that he was alright would probably be getting his own water.

Nodding to himself, John heaved himself off the bench and waited a beat for the world to stop swaying around him. He looked around the room, locating a table that looked as though it might have water, and headed towards it.

"John, what are you doing?"

John turned to see Teyla, staring at him with surprise.

"Getting water," John explained. "You _left_ me."

"I told you to stay where you were," Teyla said, her lips beginning to thin. "I will bring you water, and food."

"But you took a long time," John answered, hearing the whine creep into his voice and hoping it made her take pity. He was just trying to have a good time. He didn't want Teyla to be angry, or worried.

Teyla sighed, and John saw her eyes soften. John gave her his best charming smile, and she shook her head.

"Please, John. Sit down, just for a moment."

"Okay," John agreed happily, and he was just about to go back to the bench when he wondered what Rodney was up to, and began scanning the room for his friend.

"Let us go," Teyla said firmly, taking his elbow and steering him back through the people. John waved to a few people that he'd been talking to, and he heard Teyla sigh softly in his ear.

They had almost reached Teyla's bench when John spotted Ronon, who was exchanging another wad of cash with a Kuwanese girl. John was just about to ask what Ronon was doing when Teyla tapped Ronon's shoulder. Ronon started, quickly stuffing the cash into his pocket. John nodded sagely to himself, then realized that he still had no idea what was going on.

"Ronon, I am going to get John food and water. Will you keep him company?"

"Sure. Sheppard, we're gonna play a drinking game, want in?"

"Yes," John said definitively. "I do."

" _No_ ," Teyla snapped. "John needs to drink _water._ Ronon, go sit down, and ensure that John sits as well."

"Aww, come on, he doesn't need a babysitter."

John felt that it was high time that he was involved in this conversation. "I probably do. I'm not real good at sitting places."

Teyla threw her hands up, and wandered off. Hopefully to get John water, possibly to do something completely different. The world was getting kind of blurry, and everything seemed a little unclear at the moment.

"Don't worry, Sheppard," Ronon said, which seemed like a fair thing to say except that John wasn't really worried about anything, and he didn't think there was something he was supposed to be worried about either.

"I'm chilling out," John informed Ronon. "Teyla is getting me water. Was I...was I supposed to be sitting? Or was that what you were supposed to be doing?"

Ronon's eyes narrowed. He appeared lost in thought. John realized abruptly that Ronon was pretty drunk too. Maybe he had already forgotten the instructions. Everything was getting very confusing. John was starting to kind of wish that he could stay at this level of drunk, which was a pretty good level, instead of continuing to drink more.

"You were supposed to be sitting," Ronon said definitively. "Over there. Now."

"That…," John pitched forward slightly and patted Ronon in the center of his broad chest, "you sound like the kind of guy who isn't gonna take any nonsense. Yeah."

John followed Ronon's instructions, settling himself down on a bench, possibly the same one where Teyla would expect him to be and possibly a different one, and waited for her. Ronon continued to hover nearby, which John thought was rather nice of him. He told Ronon so. That made Ronon smile.

Teyla returned with a glass of water and a plate of something tan. "What is _that?_ " John yelled when he saw the food, pointing at whatever she was carrying. He saw several heads swivel to look at him. He ignored them.

"John, hush," Teyla said. "It is a type of bread they make here. Similar to what we had with dinner."

"It...it looks like a tortilla," he said. "A pita...a pita bread. A piece of pita bread. Is it supposed to be flat?"

He reached for the plate without waiting for an answer, but Teyla pulled it away, handing him the glass of water instead.

"Drink."

John drank. The water made his stomach slosh in a not-so-good way, but it was easy to forget about, especially when she handed him a piece of bread. He tore small pieces off with his fingers and munched on it happily until the timer went off again. Teyla pulled him to his feet, sadly, relieving him of the rest of his bread, and brought him back to the table for his next drink.

**Shot Seven**

Rodney made it back to the center just in time to see John down the next drink, wobbling slightly as he stepped away from the table.

"Rodney!"

John seemed very loud. Did he mean to be that loud? John lurched forward, catching himself on Rodney's shoulder, and smiled at him.

"Hi, Rodney!"

"Do you mean to be this loud?" Rodney asked him, steadying John slightly as he swayed back and forth. John considered for a moment, then smiled sleepily.

"Dunno. I doubt it. 'M very drunk."

"You are," Rodney agreed, watching as John's eyes floated lazily around the room before landing back on him.

"Did you have any food? The whatsit, pita's pretty good. Teyla made me eat it. She thinks I'm gonna lose."

Rodney snorted. John was seven shots in, and although he was clearly very drunk, he wasn't showing any signs of feeling sick. Besides, Rodney had bet money on John winning, and he himself was feeling a little drunk and overconfident.

"You're not going to lose," Rodney told John.

John tipped against his shoulder slightly, and Rodney grabbed his arm to steady him. Clumsily, John patted Rodney's shoulder with his free hand.

"Thanks, Rodney. 'S nice."

"I have been known to be," Rodney told him. "On occasion. Don't tell anyone, though, it's a secret."

"Okay," John whispered, very loudly. "Safe with me. Promise I won't tell. 'M good at secrets."

"Which secrets are we talking about here?" Rodney asked curiously, turning John around to face him. "Are any of them about me?"

" _Secrets,_ McKay."

"But-"

" _No,_ " John informed him, and then, for no apparent reason, placed a hand on top of Rodney's head. Rodney blinked.

John lowered his voice conspiratorially. "One of them is that you're _nice._ "

"Thanks, Sheppard," Rodney said. He'd meant it to sound sarcastic, but he didn't think it came out that way.

"You know, I have a plan," John said. "It's a…." He stumbled forward a bit, trailing off. He was slurring badly by this point, eyes glassy.

Rodney wasn't sure if he had a plan. He wasn't even sure he had a train of thought.

"What's the plan?" Rodney prompted finally.

"Oh. I think I wanna take...more shots at once. Ya know. Prove myself. Get the edge. Like they'll be all like 'Wow, Sheppard can take a lot of shots.' And they'll give us the...the bes' trade deal ever."

"I do not think that's a good idea," Rodney said firmly. "You need to pace yourself, you've already drank a lot, your kidneys need time to process it…."

"Okay yeah, you're probably right!" John said cheerfully. "Hey, where's Ronon? I wanted to ask him something."

"What did you want to ask him?"

John had already started wandering off, but this stopped him up short. "Oh, um, I forget."

Rodney stared at him blankly. This wasn't...it wasn't that Rodney wasn't having fun, but for the first time, it crossed his mind that this was potentially dangerous. John had...Rodney had consumed enough alcohol that he struggled to do the basic math in his head. John had had seven shots over the course of about two hours, but the ABV of the beverage John was consuming was completely unknown. It could be acting in his body like far more than seven drinks - Rodney simply had no way of knowing. Rodney had no idea how much longer John could keep going at this pace, but there was the potential for him to do his body serious harm.

"Are you sure you're...um…."

"Alright, bye!" John said, far too loud, and staggered off into the crowd with a small pat that was probably supposed to be to Rodney's shoulder but ended up on the side of his neck.

Rodney didn't follow him - he didn't want the Colonel to feel stifled, like Rodney was always watching over his shoulder. Before the next timer went off, Rodney caught a few glimpses of John - hanging off Ronon's shoulder, demonstrating how to throw a football, sipping on another glass of water.

By the time John had settled down at the table for his next drink, Rodney had almost managed to put his fears aside. Maybe John really would be fine, and Rodney was just overreacting. Either way, he hoped that it would be over soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Shot Eight**

John was no longer having fun. As soon as the moonshine hit the back of his throat, John had to fight not to throw it right back up. He hoped that the other guy hadn't noticed the inadvertent gagging, but that probably wasn't very likely. John had a feeling that it had been fairly obvious.

But John was not about to lose this contest. He wasn't going to let his team - and Atlantis - down. He swallowed a few more times, and when he was sure the shot was going to stay down, he nodded shakily to the officials gathered around the table and walked away.

He'd only made it a few steps before realizing that the room was swaying alarmingly, and a few more before he realized that he was the one who was swaying. John looked around, hoping to find somewhere that he could sit down, and the movement overbalanced him. He began tipping to his left, and he was trying to catch himself, but he wasn't at all sure that it was going to be possible.

John's fall was interrupted by...by a person, John thought. He'd just fallen into someone's chest. Great, he'd probably just offended someone important, and they wouldn't get a good agreement and that would be all his fault.

"Sheppard?" That was Ronon's voice.

"Hey," John mumbled, not bothering to push himself off Ronon's chest. He wasn't sure that he'd be able to stay upright.

"Sheppard, are you alright?" That was Rodney. Rodney sounded worried, really panicked now. What was Rodney worrying about?

"Thass right," John mumbled. "Me."

"What? That doesn't even make sense, he's clearly not processing anymore-"

"Am," John responded petulantly, pushing himself away from Ronon and immediately staggering backwards into Rodney. Rodney caught him, keeping a hand under his arm and a tentative hand at his back. John let him stay. At this point, it was pretty clear that it was necessary.

"John, are you alright?" Teyla was here now, and her voice was worried and urgent but her eyes were soft.

"I...I am not havin' fun anymore," John answered, and let himself slump further onto Rodney. Rodney yelped slightly, then wrapped an arm across his back. That was better, it gave John less things to think about.

He heard Teyla's voice, "Get him some water," and he tucked his head into his shoulder, trying to block out the world. He just...he needed everything to stop spinning for a moment. His chest ached, the alcohol burning like a glowing ember against his heart. His mouth tasted like rancid coffee and felt like sandpaper. His legs started to give way, threatening to buckle completely, and Rodney hoisted him more securely upright.

About a week ago, John had come down with a stupid stomach bug that he'd caught from an offworld mission. He was, somehow, the only member of his team to get sick. He'd woken up in the middle of his first night back, stomach churning and whole body trembling like he was fit to fly apart. He'd barely made it to the bathroom before getting sick. He'd spent the next twelve hours curled around the toilet, until he'd gotten "dehydrated" and Carson had stuck him in the infirmary. It had taken a good three days before he'd been able to hold down much more than water. The first time he'd tried to eat something more substantial than rice, when he was sure his stomach had settled enough that it would be fine, he had thrown it up after only about ten minutes.

That was how he felt now. Not like he had that terrible first night in the bathroom, when he'd wondered if maybe he'd feel better if he just went ahead and died. Not how he had the first few days in the infirmary, when his stomach had spasmed so much it had given way to painful dry-heaves. But how he had felt the fourth day, when he had tried to eat. Almost fine, but distinctly _not fine._ And then things had gotten less and less fine, until he'd found himself leaning over the bed to vomit up everything in his stomach.

He _really_ didn't want to throw up again. He had already experienced a year's worth of puking in the span of a few days. He was not going to let this happen.

His stomach gave a small but uncomfortable lurch, and he hiccuped into Rodney's shoulder. Immediately, Rodney was shoving him away, bracing him upright with one hand.

"Ew, Sheppard, you are _not_ going to throw up on me," he said, voice high and breathless. "I...I forbid it. If you...if you think you're going to throw up you have to _tell_ me, because I will absolutely put you somewhere else…."

"'M not gonna throw up," John said, pitching forward into Rodney again. "I'm _fine._ I'm just _chilling."_

Rodney didn't respond. John spent a moment thinking.

"I am actually still goin' to _win_ this _contest_ ," John informed Rodney. "Mmm yeah. Imma take...one million more shots. No throwin' up for me."

"You're going to _die_ ," Rodney practically yelled in his ear, and John winced away from him.

"Maybe not a million more shots," John conceded, burying his head in Rodney's shoulder again.

"How bout...two?" Ronon's hand was on John's shoulder again. It felt good. "You can do two, right, Sheppard?"

John snorted. "I can do more'n _two_."

"Or, ya know, just two," Ronon said, sounding hopeful. He wasn't making any sense. John closed his eyes and waited for the spinning to stop.

* * *

Ronon was feeling pretty good about his chances. Sheppard was starting to look wobbly and sick, and Ronon was fairly sure that in two more shots, he'd be unable to keep going. He'd throw up, Ronon would win money, and as an added bonus, John would be out of the contest before he did himself too much damage. They maybe wouldn't get the best trade deal, but Ronon didn't understand trade deals very well anyways.

"I have some water. John, can you drink?" Teyla sounded worried, and laid a gentle hand on John's back. She was overreacting, in Ronon's opinion. Sheppard was just a little too drunk, but after he got over the wicked hangover, he'd be perfectly fine. Still, he wasn't about to tell Teyla that.

"Mmmnf," John moaned into the crook of Rodney's shoulder. Rodney looked distressed.

"Was that a no? John?"

"If I drink that I'll...throw up," John mumbled. "Don' wanna."

Rodney yelped and pushed John out to arm's length again. "Do _not_ throw up on me. I will...I'll never forgive you."

John wobbled and lost his balance, tipping backwards. Ronon reached out and caught him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"'Salright, Sheppard. I don't care if you throw up. In two more shots."

"Not gonna throw up," John whispered. "Long as I don't drink the water."

"Can you eat something?" Teyla asked, seemingly without much hope. John shook his head, collapsing slightly more into Ronon's side.

"I will try to find something that may help," Teyla said, and she melted into the crowd again. John groaned slightly, and Ronon patted him absently on the back.

"He's going to end up with alcohol poisoning," Rodney predicted grimly, staring at Sheppard as his head drooped. "He's going to end up with alcohol poisoning and he's going to lose."

Ronon considered. It was a little late in the game to be taking bets, to be sure, but it seemed like a long shot at this point. Ronon thought that realistically, John would throw up long before he was actually in any danger. Besides, Ronon was drunk.

"Okay. Gimme five bucks."

Rodney, clearly also drunk, looked a little confused, but he gave Ronon the money. Ronon had known he could count on Rodney - the scientist never said no to the chance to gamble.

John seemed to get his stomach back under control all on his own, so the next ten minutes were spent trying to keep him from either wandering off or introducing himself to too many people. A few times he tried to push himself off Ronon, and Ronon had to grip tightly around his shoulders to keep him from falling flat on his face. By the time they were nearing John's next drink, his hair was standing straight up on one side and pressed down flat on the other, where it had been trapped against Ronon's chest. Ronon thought it would look pretty stupid, if the dark circles under his eyes and tremors in his hands didn't provide a complete distraction from what was happening on top of his head.

A look of what could best be described as panic crossed John's face when the next alarm went off. He tried to stumble vaguely towards the table, but almost immediately started to lose his balance. Ronon wrapped his arm more securely around his friend, and guided him to his chair.

"Remember," he said encouragingly as John nervously eyed the glass, "this is your second-to-last one."

* * *

**Shot Nine**

Teyla watched John try to pick up the shot glass, and very nearly knock it over. His depth perception seemed to be pretty much gone, and he was clearly having a difficult time getting his body to obey even very simple commands. He finally managed to get a good grip on it, and then proceeded to stare at it like he wasn't quite sure what it was. The Kuwanese man drained his glass and then just sat looking at John. Teyla pursed her lips.

Finally, with what seemed to be quite a labor-intensive movement, John brought the glass to his lips and drained it. Teyla's heart leapt into her throat - for a second she was sure he was going to immediately pitch forward and vomit. She saw his throat work slightly, and she clenched her fists at her sides. But then John pressed his hands flat against the table and took a few deep, steadying breaths. He seemed to recover enough to open his eyes.

Teyla hadn't been sure about this from the beginning, but at this point, she had half a mind to call off the whole thing. While John's opponent was drunk, he was clearly still in much better shape than John himself. It seemed to her quite unlikely that John would win, and therefore they would not get the trade deal that they wanted. If they weren't walking away with that anyways, wasn't it better for John to preserve both his health and his dignity, and walk away before he became unable to?

If it had been anyone but the Colonel, she would have suggested it. But John was stubborn, and she knew he would never stop drinking until he was physically unable to.

About thirty seconds passed, and John had made no move to get up. He was breathing heavily, swaying where he sat. As Teyla watched, his head began to drop onto his crossed arms.

Quickly, Teyla moved to John's side, placing a hand on his shoulder. John twitched and slowly raised his head, eyes blearily struggling to focus.

"John, are you alright?"

John didn't say anything for a moment, just blinked up at her plaintively. Then, with a visible effort, he seemed to rally.

"Mm...yeah," he said, pressing the heel of his hand over his eye. "'M okay."

"Yeah. See, he's fine."

Teyla glared murderously at Ronon, refusing to grace him with a verbal reply. Rodney, however, had no such qualms.

" _Fine_? He is not _fine,_ he is clearly only semiconscious."

"Ssstop," John slurred, and pushed himself fully upright. "We can't lose."

Rodney sighed, crossing his arms. "Unfortunately, you're right about that."

The ghost of a smile flitted across John's lips. "Course I am. Like...like always."

"Right, Sheppard," Rodney said, only sounding a little bit strangled. "Of course you are."

"We cannot stay here," Teyla said, dropping her voice. "People are beginning to stare. We must move away from the center of the room and find someplace for him to sit down."

"Don' wanna move," John mumbled, but he managed to lever himself part of the way upright. Rodney and Ronon each caught one of his arms as his legs buckled, and they pulled him the rest of the way up.

"Perhaps you could try to make it look less as though you are dragging him, and more as though this were a party?" Teyla suggested, after taking a step back and noticing Rodney's horrified expression. John chose this moment to moan loudly and completely relax his body, leaving Rodney struggling to support the extra weight.

"Right," Rodney snarled. "Because we're having _such a great time_."

"We aren't," John whispered. "Havin' a great time. Not anymore."

"I know, John. I am sorry." Teyla said sadly. John nodded and dropped his head onto Rodney's with a small thunk.

"Hey, Shep," Ronon interjected, and John opened one eye and peered up.

"Whaa?"

"We're gonna walk across the room. You gotta help us out a bit. Can you do that?"

An expression of vague determination crossed John's face, and he nodded. Gently, Ronon heaved him a bit more upright, and John straightened his head and managed to get his legs underneath him.

"Good man," Ronon said encouragingly, apparently genuinely impressed. He reached up to John's hair and ruffled it back into its usual spiky mess, and John seemed to perk up a bit. Teyla smiled softly, almost willing to forgive Ronon for how cavalier he was acting about the situation as a whole. Almost.

They pulled John across the floor, and he managed to at least occasionally engage the muscles in his legs. There were a few times when Teyla was worried he would vomit - he was dangerously pale, and if he moved too much, she could see him swallowing hard. But he managed to stumble along, with Ronon's assistance, until he could be propped on a bench.

He looked immediately better once he was sitting down, out of the view of other people. Still pale and weak, listing dangerously to one side, but at least he could support himself under his own power, and she was less worried about him embarrassing himself or them.

"John, can I get you some water?" she asked. She knew the answer would likely be no, but she still felt she had to ask. She simply wasn't sure what else she could do for him.

Sure enough, she shook his head emphatically, the biggest show of emotion she'd seen from him since the ninth drink.

"You really should try," Ronon said, and the fact that he was supporting her was rather worrying in and of itself - if even Ronon thought John was in trouble, things really must be looking bad.

"Nope," he said softly. "I think I'm...I'm ready to take my next drink whenever, but I...I really don't feel so good…."

Teyla rubbed his shoulder encouragingly. She hoped he would rally a little bit in the next ten minutes, because otherwise she honestly wasn't sure he was going to be able to take the next drink under his own power.

"They normally won't even let guys like me try this," he said softly.

Teyla hadn't the slightest idea what John might mean by that. But she just nodded and kept rubbing his back lightly

"'S is all part of a plot," he whispered. "It's because it's the tenth one. This 's the thing about it. They don't even...you know, six or seven more times an' this woul' be illegal."

"You're completely right about that," Teyla said soothingly, biting her bottom lip. She was starting to get truly worried now. Saving John's pride had completely exited the equation, and even getting the trade agreement seemed only nominally important. If John didn't give up soon, he was going to be in serious danger.

He started mumbling again, and she had to bend down to hear him. "'S because...have you seen the shiny thing? In there? If you count them an' it's...makin' everything crazy…."

He broke off with a slight shudder, that turned into a hiccup that Teyla was sure was going to start him vomiting.

"Are you sure you don't want water?" she asked desperately.

"They don't make that here," he whispered.

Teyla wasn't sure how to respond to this, since it was not only untrue but also made no sense. She patted John's back, trying to come up with an answer.

Ronon beat her to it. "I bet we can find some for you, if you want it. We have our ways."

"Can't," John mumbled, and try as they might, they couldn't get him to change his mind. By the time the buzzer for the next drink went off, John still hadn't drank any water, and he didn't look any better. Nor did he seem to notice the buzzer.

"Last one," Ronon said, heaving John to his feet and propelling him towards the table. Teyla had to agree with his prediction, although she wouldn't have said as much aloud. John looked terrible, grey-faced and ill, eyes unfocused. Still, with Ronon's help, he stumbled to the table and slumped into his chair.

* * *

**Shot Ten**

This...John didn't like this mission anymore. His stomach was churning before he even managed to swallow the drink, and he had to repress his gag reflex at even the smell of the moonshine.

He almost threw up right there at the table, but he had a dim impression of people staring, and he didn't remember much but he knew he had to keep this down. He pressed a clumsy hand to his mouth and swallowed a few times, willing it to stay down.

After about a minute, John's throat had stopped working, but his stomach and chest were burning and he knew it was only a matter of time.

John groaned softly and slumped forward, or at least began to. His progress was stopped by a hand, and suddenly he was face to face with Ronon. It was hard to focus on him, the edges of John's vision seemed to be getting blurry. And the middle, too, for that matter. John blinked, hoping that would make it better. It didn't.

"Are you gonna throw up?" Ronon asked him.

"No," John said, as definitely as he could. He wasn't, not now, at least. He couldn't, he didn't think. There was some reason why, but he wasn't exactly sure what it was anymore. It was enough to know that if he threw up, he'd be letting his team down. Even as drunk as he was, that wasn't an option.

Ronon's face broke into a broad smile, and John smiled uncertainly in return. Then, Ronon's arm was around him, and John felt himself being pulled into a hug.

"I _lost,_ " Ronon exclaimed delightedly, and John couldn't follow this at all any longer. Was Ronon in the contest too?

"I lost and I don't even _care_ ," Ronon told him quietly, and then John was pulled upright, still clamped tight to Ronon's side. That was probably a good thing, because he couldn't feel his legs very well and wasn't entirely sure how to work his muscles at this point.

"This guy," Ronon said, very loudly, "is the _coolest._ Shep, you're gonna win this, you know that?"

John didn't feel like he was going to win this. But Ronon seemed to be less drunk than he was, and if Ronon thought he was going to win, then he was probably right. John nodded in agreement, then found that moving his head made him dizzy and sick and dropped it onto Ronon's shoulder.

"We need to sit him down somewhere." That was Rodney. Nobody else sounded that panicked. John wanted to tell him that, but talking no longer seemed within the realm of possibility. He was afraid to open his mouth.

"I am sittin' down," John slurred quietly.

"John, you are _not_ sitting down," Rodney said, high and way too loud. "You're standing up, and Ronon is keeping you that way. You need to go _sit down,_ somewhere away from everyone else. Alright?"

Rodney had asked him a question. John's brain felt like it was processing everything very slowly, if at all. He felt sick and stupid. He was drunk. He knew he was drunk. That was about the only thing he did know. Everything...everything made no sense at all.

Apparently, Rodney accepted that he wasn't going to get an answer, because he was talking to Ronon now. John struggled to make out the words. He heard something about taking him "this way" and "be careful" and "God, Ronon." When Ronon started moving him, he felt his stomach flip and saliva flooded his mouth. He swallowed carefully.

"Stop for a second, I think he's gonna be sick." Rodney's voice.

"Not," John whispered, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention. Maybe they couldn't hear.

"You're alright," Ronon said, in a voice that left no room for argument. He was alright, Ronon said so and so he couldn't be anything else. "Come on, Shep, just take some deep breaths."

John took some deep breaths. He couldn't remember what that was supposed to be helping. But Ronon seemed satisfied, because soon he was walking again, stumbling along beside Ronon. He stared at his feet, which kept threatening to get tangled with Ronon's feet. At one point, he was set down on a bench, but he didn't look up.

Ronon let go of him, and he immediately felt himself list hard to one side. "Grab him!" he heard Ronon yell, which was unnecessary because a hand was placed on his shoulder at nearly the same instant and he was hauled back upright. Some part of his brain registered that it was rather strange that he couldn't be sitting up all on his own. Usually, he could both sit and walk without any sort of assistance.

"This is happening," he informed the room at large. His tongue felt thick and heavy. "I'm...I'm drunk."

His stomach churned again. He remembered Ronon telling him to breath so he focused on that, panting around the nausea until it seemed to abate slightly.

John closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward. He concentrated on keeping the contents of his stomach in place, letting his friends hold him upright on either side. He couldn't really remember why, now, but he knew it was important. Maybe if he waited long enough, it would come back to him.


	4. Chapter 4

Rodney was officially worried now. Not only did John look like he might throw up at any moment, they couldn't even get him to sit up straight.

Experimentally, Rodney prodded John back to an upright position. Sure enough, John immediately wobbled and fell back, his head flopping over onto Rodney's shoulder. He didn't even open his eyes. Rodney had a horrible moment of panic. Maybe his prediction _had_ come true, and John did have alcohol poisoning, and he was completely unconscious.

"Sheppard?" Rodney asked urgently, rocking John's shoulder slightly.

"Mmf," John responded. That was not enough for Rodney.

"John, are you alright?" Rodney jostled John's shoulder again, and John managed to bring his head up. His eyes were lidded, and his face was terribly pale, tinged with a slight greenish cast that made Rodney increasingly distressed about his chances of making it through this.

"Yeah," John said, his voice lowered so far Rodney could barely hear it. This was not, in the slightest, reassuring.

"I do not think that he should continue to participate," Teyla said, bending down to peer into John's face. He blinked dazedly at her, but otherwise didn't seem to register her presence.

Rodney winced. It was hard to admit defeat this far into the contest, but he had to agree with Teyla. If John couldn't even bring himself to drink water, how was he supposed to stomach more of the god awful moonshine? Besides, he already appeared to be dangerously drunk.

Apparently, this opinion was not shared by Ronon. "Aww, come on, guys. Sheppard can handle it. He's a tough guy."

"He _cannot_ ," Teyla insisted. Reaching out, she gently touched John's cheek. After a moment, his eyelids fluttered open.

"John, we believe that you should stop the contest. We will take what we can get with the trade deal. This is too dangerous."

"That's what _they_ think," Ronon muttered. "I know you can do it, buddy."

"Ronon, be silent," Teyla commanded. "John, you must stop."

Rodney saw John's eyes as he struggled to process what was going on. Then, John frowned and shook his head slightly.

"No," he whispered. "I can't."

"None of us will blame you," Teyla insisted. Rodney nodded his agreement. Next, Teyla turned on Ronon, and there was a yelp.

"We won't," Ronon agreed, sounding sulky.

"Won' stop. If...if I do…'m so drunk for nothin'." John glared at Teyla, as well as he was able to under the circumstances.

Teyla looked _dangerous_ for a split second, although her wrath was not necessarily directed exactly towards John. Then, with an angry sort of sigh, she stalked off.

Rodney, worried for the safety of the first person to run into her, followed after her. Ronon seemed to have John under control, so long as he didn't start trying to give John another drink or anything like that.

"What are you doing?" Rodney asked once they were out of earshot of the other two, not that he thought John would be paying them much attention.

"Calling Doctor Beckett," she said shortly.

" _What?"_ Rodney gasped. He had an image of Carson showing up to Kuwani in his lab coat, medical case in hand, and yelling at John in front of everyone. The yelling at John would probably involve quite a bit of yelling at Rodney and Ronon, considering they hadn't managed to stop this from happening, and Rodney could imagine very few things worse. He didn't respond well to yelling, unless it was John, and he _certainly_ didn't respond well to public humiliation. He couldn't imagine exactly what Carson would do to ruin the night, but he was quite sure that once Carson was involved, that was precisely what would happen.

And anyways, he was sure Carson would be disappointed in all four of them, and that didn't seem particularly tolerable either.

Teyla stared at Rodney. "If John will not give up on this stupid...this idiotic...if he continues to drink, he is going to require medical attention. Possibly more medical attention than Kuwani can provide. He will need Carson."

"Oh," Rodney said. He had registered somewhere in the back of his mind that Teyla had stopped after two drinks, and he kind of wished she had told him and Ronon to do that as well. This was turning into more of an emergency than he had expected, and he did not like trying to deal with emergencies without all his mental faculties about him. "Well that...yeah, I mean, I guess that makes sense."

Teyla had already turned away from him, and was talking on her comm. "Yes, we are going to need medical assistance here...no, it is not an emergency...no, we do not need a whole team, just Doctor Beckett should be more than enough...yes, it is the Colonel, he...he drank too much…"

Even standing a few feet away from her, Rodney could hear Carson's distinctive Scottish brogue through the comm. He started asking her a series of questions about John's current condition. Teyla told him that he hadn't started vomiting, he'd been able to drink a little water but not in several minutes, he had consumed ten drinks but the strength was unknown, he was responsive but minimally, he didn't seem to be having trouble breathing, he wasn't cold to the touch, he could not walk on his own. When Teyla told him John was planning to continue drinking, Rodney heard a burst of staticky yelling. He was glad it was Teyla on the other end of it and not him or John.

Teyla sighed, clearly just as frustrated with the situation as Carson seemed to be.

"It is not _entirely_ John's fault," she said reluctantly. "It is part of a ceremony to determine how much Atlantis will benefit in our trade agreement. Colonel Sheppard was merely attempting to improve our chances, but it has now gone too far."

"Aye, I'll say it has!"

Rodney winced. If he could actually make out Carson's words from this distance, the doctor must be absolutely beside himself. Rodney was not looking forward to his arrival, not in the slightest.

Still, once Carson was here, maybe some sense could be talked into John, and Rodney could stop worrying about his friend.

"We will await your arrival," Teyla said into her comm, and tapped it off, cutting off some unintelligible mumbling from Carson. Crossing her arms, she glared back in John and Ronon's direction.

"He's just trying to get us a good deal," Rodney blurted out, feeling the need to defend John from Teyla's wrath. He really _must_ have had too much to drink.

But instead of turning on him, Teyla sighed and shook her head, smiling sadly. "I know, Rodney. I am just worried about his health."

Rodney shrugged. "You know Sheppard, always has to be the hero. He'll be alright, though." Rodney wished that he believed himself.

* * *

Ronon was starting to think that Teyla and Rodney had been right. John really _was_ too drunk. The others had been gone for what was starting to seem like a _very long time_ , and all that he'd managed to get from John were a few groans and something incomprehensible about magnets.

"You sure you don't wanna stop?" Ronon asked John in a whisper. He cast a furtive glance around, making sure that Teyla and Rodney were still out of earshot and couldn't hear him betray John.

"Won' ssstop," John said firmly into Ronon's shoulder.

"'Salright if you do," Ronon insisted. "You're still a badass, got it?"

John's head rocked back and forth on Ronon's shoulder, and Ronon couldn't help but grin. Sure, Sheppard was slammed, but that just made it even more impressive in Ronon's opinion. He'd been surprised enough when John had made it past ten, but seeing how clearly ill John was and that he still planned to continue…. Sheppard had already had Ronon's respect and loyalty, but Ronon's admiration for the man continued to increase with every mission.

"You're one tough bastard, Sheppard," Ronon told him.

"Um, okay," Sheppard whispered. One of his hands stirred slightly, and Ronon thought perhaps he meant to say something else. But he remained silent. Honestly, Ronon had no idea if he'd even really registered what Ronon had said.

Abruptly, Ronon realized that at this point, John was unlikely to remember any of what was happening now tomorrow. He had almost certainly blacked out. Honestly, Ronon thought he would be lucky if he remembered much of the past hour.

Ronon estimated there would only be a few minutes until it was time for John to take his next drink. He wasn't sure how long it would take to move John, so he figured he might as well start now. Better to do it when most of the Kuwanese people were distracted, or at least as distracted as he could be, then to do it when everyone's attention was focused on the contestant.

"Hey, it's time for you to get up," Ronon informed John.

John's head rocked back and forth on his shoulder. He made a sound that was possibly no, but possibly something else. Very likely nothing at all.

"You have to," Ronon said.

He shook his head again. He said something that might have been "no moving" but also might have been "no puking" and also might have been "go fluting" or "Joe's doing." Ronon shook him, very gently, until John's head rolled off Ronon's shoulder.

There wasn't much Ronon could do to make him feel better. He would have to move at some point, and if the movement made him vomit, well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Ronon stood, keeping John more or less upright with one hand, and peered in John's face. He was pale, lips slightly parted, eyes mostly closed. He didn't react at all to the movement. It was actually kind of creepy, like interacting with a corpse.

Without letting himself think too much about it, Ronon heaved John to his feet. John made a hollow groaning sound, but he didn't immediately tip forward or throw up so Ronon considered it a victory on the whole. Ronon started bringing John back towards the table, where John's opponent was already seated. John was able to keep his feet under him, sort of, so Ronon was able to half-guide and half-drag him with some success.

By the time Ronon had set John in the chair, the timer had gone off, indicating it was time for the next drink, and everyone's attention was on the Colonel's slow progress.

A Kuwanese man tapped Ronon on the shoulder. Ronon thought he was some sort of top official, but it was hard to be certain. Teyla would probably know, but Ronon had forgotten to pay attention when everyone was introducing themselves.

"Your man does not appear to be very...comfortable," the Kuwanese man said slowly. "This contest is...it is but ceremonial. We are not looking to...cause your people any sort of permanent injury."

"Sheppard will be _fine,"_ Ronon growled.

The Kuwanese man glanced at John, who was listing heavily to one side, then back to Ronon. Ronon locked eyes with the man and glowered, prodding John in the back where he hoped no one important could see. John yelped softly and managed to bring himself back to center. Ronon crouched down beside him, where he was joined by Teyla and Rodney.

"You got this, Shep. Just one more shot, okay? Then a break."

"You're doing great," Rodney managed, only sounding mildly panicked.

Even Teyla smiled and touched John's shoulder. "We believe in you, John."

John lifted his head and smiled, just a bit. "Okay," he whispered.

The three of them stepped back, giving John room. He drew himself up, still swaying, and prepared for the next drink.

* * *

**Shot Eleven**

Teyla watched with bated breath as John fumbled around for the glass, finally finding it. It took him a few tries to get his fingers to close around the tumbler, but eventually he managed to bring it to his lips.

John was grimacing before he even opened his mouth, and Teyla winced, sure that this would be the moment that John lost.

John gulped the moonshine down, swallowing heavily. He gagged, and Teyla took a half-step forward before John somehow managed to sit up again. She watched his shoulders and back tense as he swallowed again and again, until he got his stomach under control.

"Damn," Ronon whispered from beside her, admiration heavy in his voice.

Teyla had to agree. However much she might disapprove, John had performed far better than she expected. She was worried for his welfare, but she was also quietly proud.

Still, he didn't have to know that. Not now, when she still stood a chance of getting him to stop. Teyla started forward, intending to collect John and force some water down his throat, when John tapped the table. Teyla stared in utter horror. He couldn't _possibly_ be serious….

* * *

**Shot Twelve**

John _was_ serious. The next shot was poured, and they had to watch the same painful production as before as John tried to get a grip on the glass. Instead of actually grabbing it, he ended up knocking it over sideways. Liquid spilled over the table, and John stared at the mess with an expression of delayed shock and horror. Teyla sucked in a breath, certain he would be disqualified just for that, almost hoping that he would be. But one of the Kuwanese officials just stepped forward, righted John's glass, and refilled it. John nodded slightly and made a noise that was possibly supposed to be "thank you." It was difficult to be certain.

Once John had a grip on the glass, he didn't hesitate. He just lifted it to his lips and knocked it back, grimacing initially at the smell, and then at the taste when it hit the back of his throat. This one seemed to go down slightly easier than the last one had, although the bar was quite low. He swallowed hard, put a hand to his mouth when he hiccuped, and rocked forward slightly. But he seemed to decide pretty much immediately that the shot wasn't coming back up, because as soon as he took his hand away from his mouth, he was tapping the table. His glass was collected from in front of him.

"John," Teyla began desperately, not even sure what she was going to say, but sure that she had to intervene _somehow._ Her friend was so pale he was nearly translucent, and he seemed barely able to keep his eyes open. If he died for this….

"Teyla," a clear voice said from behind her, and she jumped. She whirled around, hands automatically flying to a defensive position, and saw that it was only Carson. He was staring at the scene in front of him with shock and horror, one hand grabbing tightly onto his medical case.

"When did you get here?" Teyla asked. "John has been…."

"Just now," Carson said distractedly. "How many has he had now?"

"That was number twelve," Teyla said worriedly.

"And you can't get him to stop?"

Teyla shook her head.

"Beckett?" Ronon said, in such an abject display and shock and confusion that she would have laughed if the circumstances were different. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to try to fix the Colonel," Carson said, waving his hand at John, who was watching through half-lidded eyes as his next drink was poured. "Teyla called me."

Ronon narrowed his eyes, and Teyla felt a rush of shame. It was clear that Ronon was a little drunk too at this point, and she hadn't been able to prevent any of this.

"You're gonna make him...less drunk?" Ronon said suspiciously.

"Aye, hopefully," Carson said, eyes still on John. "They've not been letting him take breaks between the drinks?"

"They were," Teyla said softly. "But he...seems to just want to get it over with at this point. I don't think he can handle more than one or two more…."

* * *

**Shot Thirteen**

Carson nodded slightly, eyes on the Colonel. As they watched, John gingerly picked up the glass, and tipped it back. The liquid hit his throat and John swallowed with only a small gag. His throat muscles worked, and then he straightened slightly and a small smile crossed his face. For a moment, Teyla thought that everything was going to be okay.

* * *

**Shots Thirteen - Ten**

And then John bent forward and gagged up a mouthful of moonshine over the side of the table. Teyla gasped, hearing Carson do the same beside her. John coughed miserably, spitting up more alcohol, and slumped forward onto the table. He didn't make any move to get up, just turned his head to the side, shoulders shaking as he fought to keep his stomach contents down.

Teyla snapped out of her frozen horror and moved towards the Colonel, but Ronon had beat her to it, apparently beginning to move as soon as John had started throwing up.

"Gimme that," Ronon ordered, snatching a bowl of food from an important-looking official on his way to John. Turning the basin upside down and dumping its contents on the floor, he grabbed hold of John's collar and yanked him upright, thrusting the basin under his chin.

"'Sokay, Shep," Teyla overheard him saying comfortingly as she arrived with Carson, Rodney trailing behind them uncertainly. "You did great, and now Beckett is gonna make you not drunk."

Teyla didn't think that was really within the scope of Carson's abilities, but she wasn't going to correct Ronon now. Drunk as he was, he'd already managed to think clearly enough to get John a bowl, although the official he'd taken it from was looking extremely disgruntled.

John hiccoughed into silence, but didn't make any move to lift his head from the bowl. Ronon shifted his grip on John's collar, getting a more secure hold, and Teyla moved to support John's shoulders so Ronon didn't accidentally choke him in his enthusiasm to help.

"John?" Carson asked, bending down to try to catch John's eye. Helpfully, Ronon jerked John backwards a little before Teyla could stop him. John's head flopped around, but eventually he managed to halfway focus on Carson.

"John, it's Doctor Beckett." John didn't seem to process this at all, just blinked blearily in the vague direction of the Scotsman. Carson sighed. "What have ye done to yourself now, lad?"

John leaned forward and retched in response, vomiting up a little more of the alcohol into the fancy bowl.

"Shouldn't we move him somewhere more private?" Rodney asked. He was standing a few feet away still, looking both concerned and horribly uncomfortable. "All these people are staring at him, he's...he's gonna be so embarrassed…."

"I don't want to move him just yet, Rodney," Carson said. "If anyone looks like they might start giving us trouble, if you could just politely ask them to provide some space?"

"Me?" Rodney squeaked.

"I can help," Ronon said, dropping John's collar. John immediately lurched forward, and Teyla grabbed his shoulder with a gasp, not wanting him to fall forward into the bowl. "I'll make sure no one gives him any trouble. Watch…," Ronon broke off with a slight hiccup, "watch out, Kuwani."

"Please do not harm anyone," Teyla said quickly. "They probably just want to make sure the Colonel is alright."

Ronon grunted something that Teyla prayed was an affirmation, and wandered off. Teyla turned her attention back to John. Carson had lifted his head slightly, and was feeling his forehead.

"Does he have a fever?" Teyla asked with concern. That would be like John, to somehow catch an illness in the midst of all this.

"No, the opposite," Carson said. "He's cool, feel."

Teyla felt John's forehead. It was cool to the touch, slightly clammy. She managed to keep from pulling her hand away even when John pitched forward slightly - she loved the man, but she did not want to get vomited on if she could avoid it. But he just gagged slightly and spit into the bowl, seemingly unaware that Teyla was even touching him.

"What does that mean?" Teyla asked.

"It means he has alcohol poisoning."

The Athosians did not drink as much as the people from Earth seemed to, so Teyla did not have as much experience with people who were too drunk as she was sure Carson would. But _alcohol poisoning..._ that sounded serious. Teyla swallowed hard.

"Will he...be alright?" she asked.

"Aye, but you did a good thing callin' for me," Carson said. "We'll just wait until his stomach's calmed down some, and then I'll bring him somewhere we can lie him down and he can get some rest."

Teyla just bit her lip and nodded.


	5. Chapter 5

John was...not happy. Quite the opposite in fact. He knew that he was doing something wrong, although he was having a difficult time remembering what he was either doing or not doing. Carson seemed to be kneeling in front of him, which was strange and unexpected. John wasn't quite sure how it had happened.

John thought he should be sad, but mostly he was just sick. His stomach kept turning over, and if he stopped paying attention, if he forgot to breathe evenly or swallow hard or not move, it would spasm. And it was _very_ hard to keep paying attention. Everything hurt. His mouth tasted sour, and he whimpered.

Someone said something to him. He wasn't sure exactly who, or what. If it was important, John hoped they would repeat it.

He focused on breathing, in and out over and over until he almost forgot his stomach. His world narrowed to that, until he realized that someone was still talking.

"I think he may have stopped."

"We'll give it a wee bit longer before we move him." John still wasn't sure what the voices were saying. Ignoring them, he continued to breathe.

Slowly, he became aware of a hand on his shoulder. Following that was a voice. Teyla's, John realized.

"John, are you feeling better? Do you still feel sick?" Teyla sounded so worried that John focused every ounce of willpower left to him on understanding her.

"Do you still feel sick?" Teyla asked again.

Did he still feel sick? John wasn't sure. He took a break from his breathing to evaluate, and almost immediately was back to gagging in the bowl.

"Uh huh," John mumbled weakly, the next time his throat muscles relaxed enough to speak.

Teyla was talking to him again, and John couldn't make out the words but her voice was lowered into a soothing cadence. John whimpered again as the muscles in his back, abdomen, and his sides protested sharply against the constant spasming. His nose and throat were burning, his eyes were watering, and he was absolutely miserable.

"He's started again." That was Rodney, John thought. "I _knew_ this contest was a terrible idea."

Contest? Had John been in a contest? John tried to focus his scattered thoughts, but it was difficult. Everything seemed slowed down and difficult, like his thoughts were wading through heavy mud.

John didn't like it. Trying again, he grasped at the shreds of hazy memory that were left. They were in Kuwani...something about trade...and yes, a contest that he'd entered. John seemed to remember that it was important.

"Did…." John broke off, gagging up moonshine again and coughing as it seared his nasal passages. He tried again. "Did I win?"

"No, of course you didn't win." Rodney again. "Really, is that what you're worried about right now? Typical Sheppard, puking your guts out and asking about a _contest._ "

John lost most of the meaning of that sentence, but he thought Rodney sounded angry. Had John done something wrong? He'd just wanted to know about the outcome of...he knew he'd been doing something important….

"Sorry," he gasped out, not daring to lift his head from the bowl.

Rodney didn't say anything, but he felt a hand settle on his back, too rough to be Carson's and too heavy to be Teyla's.

"'M sorry," John whispered again, because while he didn't remember either what he was apologizing for or why he was so drunk, he remembered saying sorry. And if he'd said it once, probably this was a good time to say it again.

His stomach twisted viciously, and he groaned and spit more liquid into the bowl. He was exhausted. He was ready to be done throwing up.

"How do you still have anything else inside you?" Rodney asked. John realized someone was running a hand down his back, and he thought that was probably Rodney too. "I think you threw up what we had for breakfast last Tuesday."

John didn't know how to respond to that - he didn't know how he was still throwing up either. He knew he was drunk, but now he couldn't remember why. Rodney's voice...it sounded very far away. He slumped forward a little, the exhausted muscles in his stomach begging for relief.

There had been a contest, he remembered that. He had been...there had been some sort of contest, and he had had to drink the most. And it was very important. And he'd been winning, or at least he thought he might have been. But now he was vomiting into a bowl, which did not seem like something that a winner was likely to do.

"Did I win the contest?" he asked shakily, voice sore from all the throwing up. "Did I...?"

There was a slight hesitation from Rodney. John spit into the bowl again, trying to rid his mouth of the awful taste of alcohol and stomach acid.

"Yeah," Rodney finally said quietly. "You won. Good job, Sheppard. You did well."

John smiled slightly as the world continued to swirl around him.

* * *

Rodney couldn't believe that at the beginning of the night, they'd been having fun. Just a little over an hour ago, he'd been laughing at how drunk John was, mentally plotting out how he'd retell the story on Atlantis later.

There was nothing remotely funny about the situation now. John was still throwing up, his entire body racked by muscle spasms. Rodney continued running his hand up and down John's back. He wasn't sure if it was helping, but he didn't feel right doing nothing at all.

John retched again, and Rodney winced as he felt John's back tense painfully under his hand. He wished that they could move John somewhere more comfortable, but there was obviously no point when he couldn't even stop throwing up long enough to answer questions.

It was easily another fifteen minutes before John subsided, but if the tightness in his expression was anything to go by, he wasn't done yet.

"Should we bring him to his room?" Teyla asked, relaxing her hold on John's shoulder ever so slightly.

Carson bent down again, apparently examining John again. When he stood up, he looked almost as worried as Rodney felt. "How far is it?"

"Very," Rodney complained. "I _suggested_ we ask for more centrally located accommodations, but _somebody_ insisted that it would be 'rude.'"

Teyla ignored him, nodding her corroboration to Carson. The doctor sighed and shook his head.

"We best not go too far just yet. He's nowhere near done, I'm afraid. If we could just get him somewhere a bit further out of the public eye…."

"There's a bench," Ronon announced helpfully, melting out of nowhere beside Rodney and scaring him half to death. Rodney stifled his yelp and glared at Ronon, who didn't seem to notice.

"No one's gonna come near us," Ronon continued. "Not after I got done with 'em. Nobody's allowed t'bother Shep, not on my watch."

Rodney chose to ignore Ronon's ominous pronouncement in favor of focusing on the bench. They could deal with whatever havoc Ronon had wreaked on their alliance later. Rodney couldn't focus on anything but John right now.

"Now seems to be a reasonable time to move him," Teyla said. "The vomiting seems to have slowed down or stopped."

"Hey, Sheppard, did you hear that?" Rodney asked. He knew he was speaking a little too loud and slow, as if John were hard of hearing instead of drunk. "We're going to bring you to a bench. And then, once you're feeling a little better, we're going to bring you to your room. Is that alright?"

John, predictably, did not respond. In fact, he did not give any indication that he had heard Rodney.

"Is this bench big enough for him to lie down on?" Carson asked Ronon.

Ronon shrugged. "I dunno. I think it might be."

Carson sighed, and removed the bowl from John's lap. "Alright then, let's get him up."

Rodney, assuming that meant him, reached a hand under John's arm and hauled him to his feet. John was completely limp, eyes closed, breathing shallow and unsteady. He did not seem to be aware that he was standing now. He slumped forward onto Rodney. He was skinny, but he had a good deal of height on Rodney. Rodney felt himself stumbling beneath the sudden weight.

Rodney was not particularly happy with their current positioning. Teyla and Carson both seemed to think John was done vomiting for the time being, but Rodney wasn't so sure. After watching his friend spend the last fifteen minutes puking into a bowl, Rodney wasn't sure why he should be. Rodney did not consider himself particularly adept at dealing with vomit, and while he was obviously willing to rally for John, he still certainly did not want to be thrown up _on._

But John was deadweight, breathing shallow, slightly cool to the touch. Rodney wasn't about to push him away. Even if John did start to vomit again, Rodney wouldn't push him away. He _couldn't._

Ronon quickly pulled John off Rodney, taking his other side and supporting more of his weight, which was a relief because Rodney didn't think he'd be able to get John very far on his own. They started making their way towards the bench they had let John rest on earlier. The Colonel was limp between them, not giving any indication that he knew he was being moved aside from occasional moans. Behind him, Rodney could hear Teyla filling Carson in on the rest of the details, describing exactly what had transpired.

They finally made it to the bench, and Rodney carefully lowered John down. Together, he and Ronon maneuvered the Colonel until he seemed fairly well positioned, half curled on his side. He didn't look too comfortable, sprawled on the hard surface, skin almost as pale as the marble bench beneath him. As an afterthought, Rodney balled up the jacket he was wearing and placed it under John's head.

Ronon was looking at him. Embarrassed, Rodney whirled on him.

"What?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Ronon said, a slightly idiotic grin crossing his face. "It was nice. That's all."

Rodney was not entirely sure how to deal with this oddly sentimental and talkative version of Ronon. It was...almost sweet?

Still, that wasn't his main concern at the moment. He needed to focus on John, who chose this moment to slip bonelessly off the bench and onto the floor. Rodney sighed and bent down to retrieve him, and Ronon helped haul him upright.

"Uh oh. I think he's gonna puke again," Ronon said, peering into John's face.

Rodney yelped slightly, but resisted the urge to abandon John to his fate. Instead, they lowered him back onto the bench, just as Carson and Teyla arrived with the basin.

* * *

**Shots Nine - Six**

Ronon grimaced sympathetically as John began to retch again, moonshine splattering into the bowl Carson had placed beneath him. He didn't seem to be conscious at all now. Rodney and Teyla both had a hand on him, apparently preventing him from rolling off the bench again. John's eyes were closed, all of his muscles relaxed. Ronon would have thought him asleep, except for the near constant puking.

Ronon had never been this drunk before, although that wasn't necessarily for lack of trying. He just hadn't yet managed to find anything strong enough to get the job done. But after seeing this, it seemed like that might have been a good thing. What was happening to John now certainly didn't seem fun.

"Hang in there, Shep," Ronon said, rubbing the back of John's neck. Hopefully, if he could feel it, he'd find it comforting. If he couldn't feel it, maybe he'd wake up just a little less sore, his head having been properly supported.

"Son, if you can hear me, I need you to respond," Carson said. He was kneeling in front of John, peering into the Colonel's slack face and carefully holding the bowl for him to vomit into. "John? Are you with me still?"  
John made a small mumbling noise that might have been a response but was very possibly not. Then he threw up again.

Ronon realized that the whole team was gathered around John, and they all had a hand on him. Teyla was standing by his head, rubbing between his shoulder blades as his back violently contracted. Rodney was next to Carson, with a hand on John's shoulder, keeping him from rolling. Ronon found himself somewhat impressed by the squeamish scientist, who despite all his complaining, seemed as if he would rather get thrown up on by John than abandon his friend.

"You did a good job," Ronon informed John's limp body, giving his neck a pat. "You...you practically won."

Ronon had no idea if this was true. As soon as John had started vomiting, his Kuwanese opponent had been completely forgotten. After thirteen shots, Ronon was sure he was drunk too, and very possibly sick. But Ronon didn't know if he'd just barely beaten John, or if he still had a few more drinks left in him.

"You did great," Ronon continued. "We're all very proud."

John did not respond.

"Hey, is he supposed to be unconscious like this?" Rodney asked Carson. His voice was breathless, and Ronon had worked with Rodney enough to know he was on the edge of panic. "It seems like he's been unconscious for a really long time?"

"No, Rodney, he is not supposed to be unconscious like this," Carson said worriedly, not looking up from John's pale, waxy face. "As soon as he stops vomiting, we need to move him."

"Move him?" Rodney squeaked. "But didn't we just-"

"We need to get him somewhere I can set up an IV," Carson said, laying a hand on the side of John's neck, feeling for a pulse.

Ronon found this alarming. He knew John was sick, obviously, but he hadn't realized he would need that sort of medical care. He wasn't even sure that he'd known somebody could drink enough to get to that point. He'd assumed that John would throw up before that became an issue, but apparently he'd been wrong. For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe, this wouldn't all turn out fine.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Ronon asked quietly, still with a hand on John's neck. It was cool to the touch, unnervingly so. It didn't feel healthy.

Carson paused in whatever he was doing and looked up at Ronon. His eyes were worried, but the smile he gave Ronon was reassuring, and Ronon felt a bit better before the doctor even said anything.

"Aye. He'll be alright, as long as we keep an eye on him."

Ronon nodded, although it was hard to believe that John would be fine when he couldn't even wake up enough to form words.

"He has been through worse," Teyla told him softly, placing her free hand on his arm with an encouraging smile.

Teyla was right. John had been through plenty worse, and that was just in the time Ronon had known him. He could handle a little alcohol poisoning. That was nothing.

It was almost another ten minutes before John stopped throwing up for the second time.

"Is he done?" Rodney asked, his voice once again rising in pitch. "He's got to be done now, right?"

Carson nodded. "I think he'll be safe to move now. We best go quickly, now."

"I can carry him," Ronon volunteered. John was tall, but he wasn't as tall as Ronon. Besides that, he was rail-thin. In fact, now that Ronon thought about it, he seemed even skinnier than usual.

Either way, Ronon was sure it would be easy enough to manage, and more efficient than dragging him. McKay looked about two seconds away from a panic attack, and Ronon couldn't imagine that the risk of being thrown up on would help anything.

"Are you sure you can manage?" Rodney asked, still in the panic pitch.

Ronon snorted. "C'mon. The guy weighs what, like twenty pounds?"

Rodney opened his mouth, looking very much as though he were about to lecture Ronon on what kinds of things _actually_ weighed twenty pounds. Eager to forestall that particular argument, Ronon reached down and lifted John off the bench.

Ronon, who was quite sure that he could carry John on a normal day, had forgotten about one crucial fact. He was _drunk._ The second John's weight was in his arms, he felt himself stagger, John's body throwing him off balance. He had a split second to tell himself that, no matter what happened, he would _not drop John,_ but then, seemingly of their own accord, his hands were opening and he was dropping John. John tumbled out of his arms and onto the ground. He rolled bonelessly for a foot or two and then came to rest, a limp tangle of limbs.

He did not react in the slightest, as if he didn't even realize that he'd been dropped. Ronon slowly put a hand over his mouth.

And then, John began gagging again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Shots Six - Four**

Teyla felt both anger and fear quicken her heartbeat. Ronon was still looking at John's limp body with an expression of both pain and horror, but he hadn't yet made any move to either help or get out of the way.

"Move!" Teyla said harshly, shoving at his shoulder. Numbly, Ronon moved to the side, letting her through to John. She crouched down next to him, heart in her throat.

John was face down, and making absolutely no move to right himself. She could tell he wasn't completely unconscious, because he seemed to be trying to talk to her, or perhaps express his general discontent with his current situation.

He had already vomited once. Thankfully his stomach seemed to be well on its way to empty - he was awkwardly positioned, and the most recent bout of sickness had left the side of his head sticky. Teyla frowned and rolled him onto his side, doing the distasteful job of wiping the vomit off of him with her sleeve.

"...'eyla," he whispered.

"What is it, John?" She carded her fingers through his hair as Carson crouched next to her, laying a hand on his neck to check his pulse again. In the background, she could hear Rodney yelling at Ronon, reaming him out for offering to carry the Colonel and then promptly dropping him.

"Sick," John whispered. She thought it was a more general comment until he curled forward and gagged up a mouthful of moonshine.

"I know," Teyla said soothingly. "Carson will make it better soon."

"'M ready t' go home now," he muttered, eyelids drooping closed.

"I am sorry," Teyla whispered, stroking his hair back from his forehead. "Soon."

John coughed miserably and spat up some more moonshine, groaning softly with the exertion. He didn't say anything more. Teyla stayed beside him, talking softly, until John's body stopped shaking and he seemed to be done throwing up for the time being.

"Quick, now," Carson said. "Let's get him to his room before he starts again."

Rodney immediately broke off shouting at Ronon and knelt down next to the doctor. Together, they heaved John to his feet, each looping one of his arms over their shoulders. Ronon, still looking guilty - although not guilty enough, in Teyla's opinion - stepped forward as well, looking as though he wanted to offer his assistance.

"What, are you joking?" Rodney said sharply, pulling John closer. "You _dropped_ him."

Ronon grimaced. "I-"

" _No_ ," Teyla snapped. She stepped back, letting Carson and Rodney bring John ahead, and advanced on Ronon.

* * *

"Of all the _irresponsible, harmful_ things to try…I am _very_ disappointed in you, Ronon."

Rodney might have felt bad for Ronon, if he wasn't so angry himself. It was Teyla's turn to make her disapproval known, and she'd been taking full advantage of it for the past ten minutes. If Rodney was Ronon, he'd probably have hidden by now, or fallen on his knees to beg for mercy.

That wouldn't be a bad idea, actually. After all, Ronon had _dropped_ John. Rodney glanced sideways at John, whose head was drooping almost to his chest. As Rodney watched, John stirred slightly, muttering something unintelligible. His eyes didn't open.

Rodney felt a sudden fierce protectiveness course through him, and he shot an additional glare backwards at the sheepish Ronon. Maybe Rodney should give him another piece of his mind….

"And starting a _betting pool_ ," Teyla spat. "Under what circumstances could you _possibly_ think that that was a good idea? What kind of person would attempt to make money on this?"

Rodney winced. On second thought, perhaps he had better stay out of this.

"McKay-" Ronon began, and Rodney didn't like where that was going.

"Yes, you're right, I think you've learned your lesson, hmm?" Rodney said desperately, readjusting his grip on John and quickening his pace. "Let's concentrate on getting John back to his room."

John lifted one arm, flailing it weakly. Rodney thought it was just a random movement, but then John's hand tapped him on the elbow. Rodney shifted John's weight slightly, peering into his friend's face.

"St'p," John mumbled, his throat working.

Rodney sucked in an exhausted breath, and with Carson's help, lowered John to the ground. John panted weakly for a moment and then started retching.

" _How_ is he still throwing up?" Rodney said, hoping John was out of it enough that he wouldn't recognize the desperate whine. Rodney kept one hand on John's convulsing back.

Carson shrugged weakly. "He must be very nearly done."

Carson didn't sound particularly confident, and Rodney hoped it was just a trick of the light that had the doctor looking so pale and exhausted.

John finished up quickly this time. Rodney knew it was important to get John somewhere he could lie down and get some rest, so as soon as John had stopped retching, Rodney and Carson heaved him to his feet and started walking again. John hung limply between them. Occasionally, he would try to help walk, feet twitching halfheartedly, but mostly, they were just dragging him.

Twice more, they had to stop for John to vomit. By this point, he was mostly just dry-heaving, occasionally bringing up a little watery moonshine or stomach acid. He seemed to be in more pain that he had earlier, whimpering slightly after each unproductive spasm.

"This is really gross," Rodney said. "Like...really gross. I can't believe I have to do this. He is going to owe me _so much."_

Rodney did not really mean that this was gross and that John would owe him. What he really meant was that it was hard to watch his friend in so much pain, and he hoped John would be alright. But even though he was a little drunk, those sorts of words were difficult and frightening to say.

Carson didn't say anything, but the expression on his face told Rodney the doctor had understood what he'd meant.

It seemed to take a lifetime to arrive back at the room the Kuwanese people had provided for John to stay. They had only meant to stay here one or possibly two nights, so they had all packed light. John's room was empty aside from his usual backpack, full of pajamas and power bars, or whatever it was John thought he would need for an overnight, and his discarded tac vest. He hadn't bothered to spend any time unpacking, and the bed was still neatly made.

Rodney and Carson deposited John on the bed. He mumbled slightly and curled in on himself, but Rodney thought that he seemed more comfortable.

"It'll be alright now, son," Carson said, taking off his backpack and patting John hastily on the shoulder as he began to unpack. "We'll have ye right as rain soon enough."

John sighed softly and flopped over onto his back. It didn't seem to be a voluntary movement, as he looked completely unconscious again.

"Oh, watch out," Carson said sharply. "If he throws up while he's face up, he could choke. Could ye prop him on his side with a few pillows?"

Rodney could think of no worse way to die, and he'd thought of a lot of them. Shuddering, he gripped John's shoulder and struggled to turn him onto his side. For someone who seemed so light, the Colonel was awfully hard to maneuver. He seemed to be all limbs, flopping about uncoordinatedly.

Eventually, Rodney maneuvered John onto his side, and Teyla joined him, helping him prop a few pillows behind John's back so he couldn't roll over.

John mumbled something, apparently agitated. His eyes squeezed tightly shut, and his free right hand began to move weakly, attempting to push the pillows away.

"No," Rodney told him, grabbing John's wrist and pulling his hand away from the pillows. John whimpered slightly, trying to take his hand back.

"You can't mess with the pillows," Rodney said desperately, feeling as though the situation had slipped irrevocably out of his hands. John was completely absent, mentally speaking, and Rodney himself was a little too drunk to feel as though he had full command of the situation.

"Shh, John, it is alright," Teyla whispered, laying a calming hand on John's shoulder. She sat on the opposite edge of the bed, transferring her hand to John's back and stroking it gently.

John mumbled again and stopped trying to yank his hand away from Rodney. Rodney laid it down, wishing that this wasn't happening. John was not supposed to be this drunk, not so drunk that he didn't seem like John. Even when Rodney had seen John badly injured, in so much pain he could barely talk, he was still in control of his faculties, in command of the situation. This was different, and Rodney didn't like it.

"You're going to be fine, you know," Rodney told John. Really, he was trying to convince himself far more than John. He didn't think that John could understand a word that he was saying. "And we'll tease you about this, and everything will be normal again."

John stirred slightly, pressing his face into the sheets. He looked dreadfully pale all of a sudden, his hair sticking to his forehead with cold sweat.

"Okay, maybe we won't tease you," Rodney said quietly. "This isn't very funny anyway."

Somehow, while Rodney had been focused on keeping John from moving the pillows or rolling onto his back again, Carson had managed to completely prep an IV. Rodney still thought biology, and by extension medicine, might possibly be magic, but he had to respect how _fast_ Carson was. The doctor could be nervous and emotional, but when it really came down to it, he simply...got the job done. Not unlike Rodney himself.

Carson deftly grabbed John's right arm and rolled it enough that the crook of John's elbow was exposed. Rodney looked away as Carson stuck John with the needle - he wasn't squeamish, but watching a needle go into his best friend just seemed like a little too much.

"There," Carson said softly. "That'll make him a little more comfortable."

"Are there painkillers in there?" Rodney asked suspiciously. John had seemed pretty miserable, last time he had been conscious enough to seem like anything, and Rodney figured it was a good time to take advantage of the fact that John was too out of it to refuse them.

"No," Carson said. "He doesn't need painkillers, although I don't imagine he'll feel very well in the morning."

"Anti-nausea medication?" Rodney asked.

"He doesn't need that either," Carson said. "I don't want any more drugs in his system. This is just fluids, to get his blood pressure back up and rehydrate him some. He'll feel much better tomorrow because of this. He may vomit again, but aside from that I think he's through the worst of it. I'm just going to stay up with him, make sure he keeps breathing on his own."

"Keeps breathing on his own?" Rodney squeaked. It hadn't occurred to him that that was a thing that John might stop doing.

"What did you think was going to happen?" Now, Carson sounded a little angry. Rodney had only heard the doctor get angry a small handful of times, and it was usually directed at John, not him. "The man drank his own body weight in alcohol!"

Rodney looked around the room. Teyla had the decency to look ashamed. Ronon looked like he wasn't paying attention, but Rodney knew him well enough to think that he possibly seemed a bit sad.

"I...didn't think it would turn out this badly," Rodney said half-heartedly. In his own defense, this was completely true - Rodney wasn't in the habit of putting his friends in danger for fun.

Carson looked as though he were about to say something else, when John whimpered again, eyes squeezing shut.

* * *

**Shots Three - Two**

Teyla helped roll John forward just as Carson grabbed a trash can from the corner of the room and stuck it in front of John's face. John seemed close to unconsciousness again, barely registering the discomfort. Teyla supposed that might almost be a good thing - at least he wasn't miserable - but it was frightening to watch.

Luckily, this bout lasted only a few minutes before John's face went slack and his muscles relaxed. He was done for the time being, hopefully for good, and Teyla pulled him back onto the bed.

"I thought you said he was done," Rodney said plaintively, looking guiltier than Teyla had ever seen him. Even Ronon, who'd been judiciously silent ever since Teyla had admonished him, was looking ashamed of himself.

Teyla shared the sentiment. She had wanted to stop John from continuing when it became apparent that he was far too drunk, but she had let him convince her otherwise, and now Carson was talking about ensuring that John continued to breathe on his own while John threw up into a trash can.

"I said I _hoped_ he was done," Carson said grimly. "It's hard to tell, and he's very drunk."

"How is it this bad?" Rodney asked. "He seemed fine a while ago, and he's _Sheppard,_ he always does this sort of stuff…. Wouldn't he have known?"

Carson sighed, rubbing his temples. "Rodney, this is Colonel Sheppard's first mission back in a week. A week that he spent in the infirmary, unable to keep food down. Even if he does know his tolerance, which I'm not convinced he does, he's lost a lot of weight. It's bound to be lower than usual. None of you thought of that, did ye?"

Teyla looked away from the doctor in shame. She _had_ thought about John's recent illness, she'd even worried about his ability to keep the drinks down, and she still hadn't thought to consider how much harder the moonshine would be hitting him than usual. She combed her fingers through John's hair in a silent apology, and he hummed slightly and settled deeper into the bedding.

Carson looked at their faces, and sighed softly, clearly softening.

"But what's done is done, and I'm here now, and John will be perfectly fine. Well, he'll be bloody miserable in the morning, but he'll be right as rain after he gets some fluids and food in him."

"It's a shame that after all this, he didn't even win," Rodney said. "We're not going to get the trading deal we wanted."

Teyla pursed her lips together. This was not something she found pleasing either, although at this point she was more unhappy for John's sake than she was for the sake of Atlantis. "Perhaps...refrain from telling him that tomorrow morning," she said. "At least not immediately."

They were silent for a few minutes. John seemed to be sleeping more peacefully now, and Teyla thought it could have been her imagination but John seemed to be breathing a little more deeply. She still had her hand in his hair.

"I think he's settled down," Carson finally said. "The three of you should get some rest. It's been a long night for you as well."  
Teyla thought it was kind of Carson to acknowledge that, especially after everything the three of them had inadvertently put John through, but Teyla had absolutely no intention of leaving. It was the least she could do for both John and Carson to wait here until her friend woke up.

"We're not leaving," Rodney said firmly, and this, she had to admit, was a bit of a surprise. She had expected both Rodney and Ronon to retreat to their rooms and sleep off their own drinks as soon as they were given permission. But Rodney's voice was that distinctive combination of whiny and determined that made him completely impossible to argue with. And when Teyla turned around, she saw that Ronon was nodding as well.

"The worst is truly over," Carson said. "There's no reason for the three of you to stay. I promise you he's in good hands."

"He's the Colonel," Rodney said, as if this completely addressed Carson's concerns.

"It'll be a long night," Carson said. "And he'll be sleeping like the dead. He likely won't wake enough to even realize you're here until morning."

"He's our friend," Teyla said.

Carson finally nodded. Teyla got off John's bed - as much as she wanted to be physically close to him, she doubted at this point that close proximity would actually help any. Since Ronon and Carson had already claimed the only two chairs, she settled herself on the floor, back leaning up against the wall. Rodney followed suit, looking deeply displeased that he had to sit on the floor. Still, he took his place without verbal complaint, and they settled down for the night.

Towards dawn, there was a knock on the door. Rodney and Carson looked around sharply, and Ronon started out of the light doze he'd fallen into, almost lurching out of his chair.

"I wasn't asleep," he mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Teyla ignored him and went to answer the knock before the noise could awake John. The knock came again, and he stirred slightly, but his eyes stayed closed and he didn't seem to register the noise.

Teyla opened the door to reveal one of the Kuwanese officials they'd met yesterday. Teyla put a finger to her lips and slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

"Colonel Sheppard is still sleeping," she told the man, doing her best to keep the accusatory tone out of her voice.

"We would like to discuss the terms of the trade agreement," the Kuwanese man said, obligingly lowering his voice to a whisper. "If you are able?"

Teyla considered. It would be best if she could receive the bad news without John there, and she could gently break it to him later. Besides, she doubted that he'd be in a fit state to discuss the ins and outs of a new treaty at any point today.

"Very well," she said, nodding to the man. Ducking back into John's room, she explained where she was going.

"Good luck," Rodney mumbled, not sounding remotely hopeful. Unfortunately, Teyla agreed. She wished that she could have better news for John when he awoke. Leaving the room again, she followed the Kuwanese man down the hall.

* * *

For a split second after waking up, John felt okay. Then, he opened his eyes, and he felt as far from "okay" as he'd ever been.

The first thing he noticed was the headache. In the two seconds that he'd had his eyes open, it had built from a slow, painful ache behind his eyes to a rapid burst pulse of pain that somehow encompassed his whole head. It hurt even to move his eyes, so John closed them.

That didn't help, because now John was noticing the nausea. Closing his eyes unmoored him from the room around him, and he suddenly felt like the room was tilting violently. Desperately, he reached one hand out, gripping the bedsheets in an attempt to anchor himself.

"He's awake, I think." That was Rodney's voice, like a spike being driven through his throbbing skull. John squeezed his eyes shut tighter and weathered the pain.

"Colonel Sheppard. How are you feeling?" Carson. Thankfully, he was speaking a bit quieter, and John's headache subsided just enough for him to consider attempting to answer.

* * *

**Shot One**

John cracked one eyelid and was preparing to speak when, much to his surprise, he was turning on his side and retching over the side of the bed. He heard Rodney make a small noise of disgust and Carson (when had Carson gotten here again?) leaned forward and put his hand on John's shoulder. John didn't remember much of what had happened the night before, but he figured it must have involved a lot of vomiting, because now, there was almost nothing in his stomach.

"What...happened?" he gasped when he was done. Carson helped him roll onto his back.

"Do you remember the contest?" Ronon asked.

"Um, yeah," John said. The lights in the room were far too bright. He gingerly lifted a hand and held it over his eyes. "I mean...most of it. Some of it."

"Can you drink a little water?" Carson asked. John shook his head weakly. He knew he was just hungover, and he would feel much better once he'd had some fluids. But he actually felt a little less sick after vomiting, and he wasn't exactly in the mood to push it.

"In a few minutes then," Carson conceded, and John nodded.

"Did I...did I win?" John asked. He didn't remember...he had a few vague memories of the night. Teyla talking to him while he was seated on a bench, trying very hard not to throw up, lying on the ground for some reason, looking down at his feet. He didn't remember anything at all about the outcome of the contest.

There was an awkward silence. John took his hand away from his eyes, and saw that Carson, Ronon, and Rodney were all decidedly not looking at him. That could only mean bad news.

"Sheppard…," Rodney began slowly.

And then the door opened, and Teyla came back in. Her face lit up with a smile when she saw that John was awake. "Good morning! How are you feeling?"

John lifted one hand into a wavering thumbs-down.

"I have some news that will cheer all of you up," Teyla said. "Despite the fact that John did not win, the Kuwanese were quite impressed with John's performance. Although he did not prove a high alcohol tolerance, he did prove his determination and resilience. They are giving us the best possible trade deal."

There were exclamations of excitement all around, although John still didn't feel very well and could only bring himself to give a small smile.

"Oh, Mckay, I nearly forgot," Ronon said, as if the mention of one piece of good news had reminded him of more. "Your winnings."

He pulled a handful of cash out of his pocket, and John watched in stunned silence as Ronon handed it to the scientist.

Rodney looked just as confused. "My...what?"  
"Your winnings," Ronon said. "You bet that John would get alcohol poisoning. And he did. Beckett said."

Rodney's eyes widened in embarrassed shock as he accepted the money.

"You bet against me?" John gasped. He wished he could sit up. He thought that would look more dramatic. "You bet that I would get alcohol poisoning?"

"He bet that you would win at first," Ronon said diplomatically. "Really, this happened too late in the night, anyone with eyes could see you weren't going to win."

"Ronon bet you would lose right from the beginning!" Rodney pointed for emphasis. "After only ten shots! Blame him!"

"Ronon did WHAT?" John couldn't raise his voice very loud. But he thought the meaning was still clear.

"Hey, I learned my lesson," Ronon said with a shrug. "Never bet against John Sheppard."


End file.
